The Man in Green
by DoubleBlue
Summary: The Valeyard, near death, comes back in time to meet the Doctor. But what does he want? And who exactly is he? Features a 12th Doctor, an unnamed female companion and my interpretation of the Valeyard's origin.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.

* * *

The man wore a green hooded robe that, at a casual glance, could be mistaken for a raincoat. He was leaning against the far wall of the train-station, his arms folded in the baggy sleeves and his face concealed in the shadows of the hood. Only his mouth, grey stubbled chin and creased cheeks were exposed. The Doctor watched him from the platform on other side of the tracks.

Around them both the station was churning. A torrent of people flowed towards the big steam-train, ready to board, and others lined up at ticket booths or wandered around the shops on the concourse. The air was saturated by the buzz of the crowd.

Beside the Doctor an auburn haired woman was squinting over the tracks at the tides of people on the opposite platform.

"No, I still don't see him," she said.

"Next to the booth, against the wall, on the far right," the Doctor said.

"Can't you just point to him?"

"I don't want him to know we've spotted him."

"Next to the booth?"

"Yes."

"Which booth?"

"The one on the far right."

"How far right?"

"Thirty meters or so."

"Uh huh."

"You see him?"

"Sure don't."

"In the green robe."

She turned away to look at him. "You do realise there are hundreds of people here. And about a fifth of them are wearing green?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think maybe you're just being-"

"No."

She peered out over the tracks again. "Well then, are we going to stand here playing where's Wally for another fifteen minutes? Or shall we go say hi?"

The Doctor looked over to the platform. The man in green was gone. He wanted me to see him, the Doctor thought. He's playing with us. But he'll be back. He shows up at the café, then the park, the street, the pub and now the station. Wherever we go he follows. No. That isn't right. Not follows. He is always already there. Waiting for us. He won't be _back_. But he will be _ahead_.

"Well?" she asked.

The Doctor looked up from his thoughts. "No," he said.

"No?"

He nodded.

"Right," she said. "Brilliant. Another triumph for communication."

"He's gone now," he said. "But that's fine. I want _him_ to come say hi to _us_."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"How do you know?"

"He's been tracking us since we arrived."

"Says you."

"And he isn't armed. Which means he's interested, but not hostile."

"You're never armed, and you can be pretty damn hostile."

A smile twitched briefly on the corner of his mouth. She saw it and beamed at him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go make ourselves a bit more approachable."

They sauntered up the staircase and towards the entrance. On the way through the concourse, the Doctor stopped by a market vendor and gazed at the brands of cigarettes.

"No," She said. He gave a deep, gravelled sigh. She took his arm and led him away from the vendor. "Don't you growl at me."

"You wouldn't have believed some of my older habits," he said as they walked. "Some of the things I used to eat."

"Eating is fine. People need to eat. Smoking kills and serves no other purpose."

"Have you tried it?"

"Of course not."

"Then how do you know it serves no other purpose?" he asked.

"Okay then, I have tried it and that's how I know," she said.

"So you're a hypocrite?"

"Yes."

Something green and long flickered in the corner of the Doctor's eye. He glanced and caught a green-clad back disappearing around a corner. He looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him curiously.

"How about a drink?" the Doctor said.

"Now there's a habit I can endorse," she said.

"It's not my fault you know."

"What's that?"

"The smoking. It's these lungs, I never used to crave cigarettes."

"And I never used to fight cybermen, but I can hardly blame my arms for that."

"Well no, but your arms don't crave such things."

"I blame you."

"Lovely."

"Aren't I though?"

"Of course."

They were both smiling now, walking with their arms entwined. Him, in the black trench coat, the open-collared shirt, the loose tie hanging from his throat and the solid boots; like some sort of throwback detective. And her, in jeans and the red cardigan with the sleeves rolled up.


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you mean your lungs crave cigarettes?" she asked.

"Oh, you definitely never smoked," he said.

"No really, what did you mean?"

"Well, these lungs weren't always mine."

"You mean, like a transplant?"

"No."

"Well then?"

"Timelords, we're sort of like cats."

"You're not," she said mockingly. "I've seen you land on many things that weren't your feet."

"No, I meant the nine lives."

"Okay."

"Except for us it's thirteen."

"Thirteen lives?"

"Yes."

"It's figurative right? A metaphor? Spiritual?"

"It's called regeneration."

"Thirteen lives. Thirteen. How greedy. So how many have you got left?"

"One more. This is my twelfth body."

"My goodness, you're serious?"

"I've shown you other planets, time travel, demi-gods. But you don't believe this?"

"I was just being optimistic. I thought maybe you'd learnt how to joke."

"I used to joke. I used to be funny."

"But your humour gland didn't regenerate?"

"Personality changes too."

She stopped him by a railing and they leaned against it, watching the now-full train depart. It coughed up dark puffs of smoke from the flute, leaving a sooty taste in the air. People on the platform were waving at their friends and family on the train.

"That's horrible," she said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your personality. It's you. Isn't it? It's like you die and another person inherits your memories, your identity."

"It's not so bad. It's just nuances that change, quirks."

They resumed their stroll to the gate silently.

"So," She said eventually. "Any ideas who our stalker is?"

"A few."

"Care to share?"

"I didn't say they were good ideas."

"I still think you're just being paranoid."

"When have I ever been wrong about something like this?"

"I think you're just seeing different people wearing green raincoats."

"I ask again: When have I ever been wrong about something like this?"

"Well there was Laylora."

"Laylora doesn't count. And I thought I said to never mention that again."

"Doesn't count? How can..."

The Doctor stopped, jerking her to a halt. Perched on the half-wall by the gate was the man. Green robe, hood draped over his head, grey stubble and wrinkled cheeks. A group of people walked between the Doctor and the man, then he was gone again. A mirage.

"Another raincoat?" She asked.

"I think he's leading us somewhere."

"Then why wouldn't he just, you know, lead us there?"

"I don't know."

"Where was he this time?"

"The wall," he nodded at it.

"I didn't see anyone."

"Yes, well, lovely as you are, you lack my powers of observation."

"Careful."

"Would you mind getting some of those roasted cashews?" he asked.

"What?"

He pointed her out the entrance and down the street.

"There. That little stand," he said.

"You want me to fetch you some cashews?"

"Well, if you won't let me smoke."

"I suppose. You haven't got any money?"

"No."

"Of course not."

"Would you mind? I'm just going to sit here and have a think." He gestured at a wooden bench.

"Do I distract you from thinking?"

"Perhaps."

She left to get the cashews. He watched her go, across the wet cobblestones, until she joined the back of the line at the shop. He turned and sat down on the left end of the bench. The man in green was already sitting to the right.

"She really does lack your powers of observation," the man said.

"Few don't."

"Don't you trust her?" the man said. "Always keeping secrets, sending her away when the grownup's need to talk."

"I'm keeping her safe."

"Yes," the man in green said. "I know."

"So who are you then."

"No guesses? I thought you were such a detective."

"I've plenty of guesses."

"Ah yes, but you keep them to yourself. Such a detective."

"Who are you?"

The man drew back his hood and let it fall down his neck. He had narrow, regal features and thick steel-coloured eyebrows.

"Oh," said the Doctor. "It's you."

"Well," said the Valeyard. "In a way, I'm also you."


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor remembered the trial clearly. He had thought about it many times.

The courtroom. The Inquisitor; in her white headdress and gown. The Valeyard; in the prosecutor's seat, dressed all in black. The jury; silent and watching silhouettes. The light shining on him – the accused – exposing him before them.

On the evidence screen was the Master. Having hijacked the trial, meddling from a safe distance. "You have an endearing habit of blundering into these things Doctor, and the High Council took full advantage of your blunder," the Master said.

"Explain that." the Inquisitor demanded.

"They made a deal with the Valeyard, or as I've always known him – the Doctor. To adjust the evidence, in return for which he was promised the remainder of the Doctor's regenerations," the Master said.

The Valeyard had stood and started to speak, but the Doctor cut him off. "Just a minute." He was staring at the Valeyard. Scrutinizing him. "Did you call him, the Doctor?"

The Master smiled. "There's some evil in all of us Doctor, even you. The Valeyard is an amalgamation of the darker sides of your nature. Somewhere between your twelfth and final incarnation."

* * *

The Doctor studied his former nemesis. The Valeyard still held himself with the same rigid pride, his jaw set stubbornly, his posture stiff and his gaze arrogant. But he was an old man now. His eyes were yellow and cloudy from cataracts, his hair thin and white, his lips shrivelled and dry. Far gone from the elegant man who once battled the Doctor.

"You look rather tired," the Doctor said.

"Tired? No. I still have all the energy I used to, all the drive. It's just this body. It's wasted."

"Turning to dust," said the Doctor. There was no gloat in his voice.

"Does it bother you?" the Valeyard asked. "To see me like this?"

"Not at all."

"But I am your future, Doctor. This is your destiny. You are literally staring at your own demise."

"You're not me."

The Valeyard twisted on the bench, turning to fully face the Doctor.

"Then who am I?" he asked.

"A defect. A manifestation. An abomination."

"No Doctor. You are twelve and I am thirteen."

"That's a lie."

"I am you. Not a spectre or a manifestation or a dark twin. I am your future self."

"I don't believe you Valeyard. And you won't convince me."

"Go on," the Valeyard said.

"What?"

"Ask it."

"What do you want?"

"I think you know."

"They're all gone, our people, and they're not coming back. We made sure of that," the Doctor said.

"Of course."

"And without them, without Gallifrey, you can't renew your regenerations."

"Doctor, if you know this, then by extension I know this too,"

"If it's not more regenerations, then what do you want?"

"I want a solution to that exact problem. There are no regenerations to be had and this body is failing. I want to survive."

"Everything ends, Valeyard."

"But must it be that way?" the Valeyard said.

"Yes."

"I don't think so."

"You're talking about immortality?"

"Exactly, Doctor."

The Doctor slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling his sonic screwdriver. He doubted he would need it, but it was comforting: An old friend, here with him, to face an old enemy.

The Valeyard continued. "You see there's a great irony when you live as long as we do. You see so many things, live such a full life. But it doesn't satisfy you. Oh no. Doesn't bring you peace," he spoke the last word like a curse. "It just makes you more curious. Makes you realise just how much there really is out there. Makes you wonder how much of the universe you haven't seen. How may things you haven't done."

"This universe is done with you," the Doctor said.

"No, Doctor. You're wrong."

"Listen to yourself, Valeyard. You're desperate. You would be better off using what time you have left to let go of this life. Accept the inevitable."

The Valeyard grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Accept the inevitable?" he said and chuckled curtly. "Well, Doctor. I would say it is you who should listen to yourself."

The Doctor said nothing. It had begun to drizzle lightly, the rain coming down in a grey, fine mist. Pedestrians scuffled for cover, a few unfolded umbrellas and walked alone down the glistening street. The Doctor and the Valeyard remained dry, sheltered under the station's roof. They watched the dampness darken the pavement and creep towards their feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: **Having taken on some of the excellent feedback, I decided to cut the end of the third chapter and re-write it as a whole chapter unto itself. I'm hoping this disperses the info-dump a little more evenly: Building to the climax, rather than just dropping it in randomly (Please let me know if you think this is more or less effective). Those of you who have already read the previous chapter before this update might want to look back and see how it syncs up now.

DB.

* * *

The Valeyard drew a handkerchief out of his robe. He coughed into it forcibly, his eyes clenched shut in pain. The cough sounded moist and, when he removed the handkerchief from his mouth it was stained with something black, like ink. The Doctor regarded him impassively.

"Well that's disgusting," the Valeyard said. "I think a piece of my oesophagus came up with that."

"How much longer do you have?" the Doctor asked.

"Forever, Doctor. I have forever."

"You're nearly out of time. That's why you're here, you need my help."

"Oh, do I?"

"But you're not going to get it."

The Valeyard laughed, something caught in his throat and he hacked off another cough into the handkerchief. When he was done, he looked up, smiling with black stained teeth. "Behold the mercy of the Doctor. The benign Doctor. Who spared the Rutan Host and pardoned the Master. Who showed such compassion, even to his enemies – save one old dying man."

"Goodbye, Valeyard. I hope you find peace before your time runs out." The Doctor went to stand.

"Wait, Doctor. I have something for you."

The Doctor, whose hand had not left his pocket and the sonic screwdriver within, rolled the device in his fingers. The Valeyard paused to cough noisily into the handkerchief again. He grimaced at whatever had spewed into the cloth.

"It really is disgusting," the Valeyard said examining the oily discharge. "Absolutely filthy." He looked at the Doctor. "Here."

He threw the soiled hankie at the Doctor's face.

The Doctor gingerly caught it between two fingers, he felt something hard jab into his ribs. He looked down. The Valeyard had a revolver, partially concealed in the folds of his baggy sleeves, pressed against the Doctor. The Doctor threw the handkerchief into the rain.

"A pistol?" The Doctor said incredulously. "Really? A gun?"

"Yes." the Valeyard said and smiled with his tainted teeth. "I'm rather fond of them."

Keeping his eyes locked with the Valeyard's, the Doctor aimed his sonic screwdriver at the weapon from inside his pocket. He squeezed the activation button. The screwdriver hummed and the gun sizzled in the Valeyard's hand, then there was a sharp bang. The Doctor felt heat is his pocket and smelled charred fabric. Smoke was rising in a plume from his jacket. The Doctor pulled his screwdriver out of his pocket. The tip had split exposing sparking wires beneath the casing. He looked at the Valeyard. The Doctor could feel the barrel of the still intact gun pressed into his ribs. It had not broken.

"I sonic proofed it," the Valeyard said. "You haven't learnt that trick yet."

"What do you want?" the Doctor asked, bunching a fist around the ruined screwdriver. "And not this immortality rubbish. Why are you here? Why come see me? What do you want?" he repeated. The Valeyard was grinning. "You can't kill me," the Doctor said. "Come back in time and kill yourself? Ridiculous. All kinds of paradoxes."

"Ah but I thought I wasn't you. I thought I was a defect, a manifestation, an abomination," the Valeyard mocked.

"Okay, let's say you _are_ me."

"Well in that case, I'm a Timelord. And a very old, very clever one at that. So I know my way around paradoxes."

"But why? What purpose does killing me serve?" the Doctor asked.

"I'm not killing you, Doctor. I'm regenerating you."

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

"Oh yes, now you understand," the Valeyard gloated. "Guess _who_ you are going to regenerate into?" He stretched out his free arm, and gave a shallow, humble bow.

It had stopped raining and the sun emerged over the dissipating canopy of cloud. The wet, cobblestoned street sparkled. People began to wander back onto the street from the buildings and roofed arcades. The tobacco vendor from the train-station came outside with his cart and stood by the Doctor and Valeyard's bench. A woman approached the vendor, asking about snuff. The Valeyard adjusted his sleeve to cover the gun more.

"You can't do this. You can't change your own timeline," the Doctor said.

"Immortality, Doctor. As I die, another Valeyard shall be born," the Valeyard said.

"And eventually he will die as well, exactly the same as you. This solves nothing."

"No, not exactly the same as me. I am interrupting my own timeline. Creating a _new_ Valeyard. This Valeyard will live a new life – unbound to my fate."

"Utterly insane," the Doctor said. "He'll still die eventually. This isn't immortality. Surely this can't be your whole plan? What aren't you telling me?"

"Goodbye, Doctor."

"And how can you do this? Paradox Machine? Self-sustaining time-loop?"

"Enough stalling. Goodbye, Doctor."

The Doctor smiled a little, at the corner of his mouth. "Not stalling, Valeyard. Detective work."

"Ah yes, the great detective. Gathering information. So you can stop me? You're hardly in the position for it."

"Not me," the Doctor said. "Her." He nodded to his left.

"Hi," the Auburn haired woman said. She was standing by the tobacco vendor. The Valeyard looked up as she threw a handful of snuff powder into his face. He erupted into a coughing fit, taking shuddering gasps of air between spasms.

The Doctor stood. "Goodbye," he said to the Valeyard.

The Valeyard raised his wavering arm, the pistol clutched under the folds of the robe sleeve, but they had already run. He dropped the gun beneath him, hunched over and coughed uncontrollably into cupped hands. When he was done, he wiped as much of the black sludge off his hands onto the ground as he could. He bared his rotten teeth in a grin.

"Perfect," the Valeyard said to himself.


End file.
